In Awkward Gratitude
by Setep Ka Tawy
Summary: After six months, Sherlock is back, but John isn't the only one who needs to be informed of the detective's plans. There remains the issue of one Molly Hooper. Post-Reichenbach one-shot with Sherlock/Molly friendship.


**Author's Note: **This is a sort of "deleted scene" type thing from my collaboration plot-arc fic with **Kaelir of Lorien**, "Returning To Tomorrow", but is intended to be read as a one-shot. For clarification, in this fic-verse, Sherlock spent the six months after the Fall at Mycroft's - basically self-imprisonment.

The relationship between Sherlock and Molly has always intrigued me. There's so much more to her than one thinks.

Warning: Vague spoilers for Reichenbach.

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**In Awkward Gratitude**

Only two days had passed since Sherlock had, with many awkward words and even more awkward pauses, reunited with his best friend after six months of separate and yet mutual emptiness. He wasn't quite convinced that John was really taking it in; several times he had caught the other man staring at him with a dazed sort of expression on his face. John also seemed to be finding excuses to be in the same room with Sherlock even when it wasn't close to necessary. Perhaps, the detective speculated, his friend was hoping that physical proximity would eventually impress upon his brain that reality was, in fact, just that. Whatever the reasoning behind it, Sherlock somehow managed to keep his comments to a minimum.

If he was inclined to be honest with himself – only sometimes – Sherlock had to admit that returning from the proverbial grave wasn't exactly easy on his end either. True, he didn't need to relocate all his possessions back into 221B Baker Street like John; but there were other adjustments to be made. At the insistence of both his friend and his brother, Sherlock had grudgingly maintained his low profile even though he was technically no longer in hiding. Two days, even two weeks, was not enough elapsed time to allow for a sudden re-emergence into the public world (as John and Mycroft had been quick to impress upon him). Sherlock chafed at the unmarked restrictions, but if truth be told, he wasn't all that keen on popping up again out of nowhere anyway.

There were, however, a few things that needed doing – and it was the first of these which led to Sherlock standing on the pavement in front of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

It struck him that most people would have considered this to be rather odd, returning to the scene of one's apparent and legal death. Most people probably would have looked up, taking in the considerable distance between the ground and the top of the building far above, before turning their gaze to the pavement, where a body had crashed down.

Sherlock glanced up, then back again. Roof. Pavement. Most people seemed to have this strange urge to attach a deeper meaning to everything. What was he supposed to do – come over all clammy every time he came here? Seemed more of a bother than it was worth, really. He shrugged, and headed in through the one of the back entrances of the hospital.

It didn't take long for him to ascertain that the person he had come to see wasn't actually there – a glance at the shift schedule and a few peeks around the morgue made that quite clear. Alone in a basement corridor, Sherlock allowed a trace of a frown to creep across his features. He had rather been hoping to find her here, it would have made everything so much easier – but no. Consciously or not, Molly Hooper had a tendency to make everything far more complicated than it needed to be.

Sherlock twitched his coat collar a bit higher over his neck and made his way quickly towards the exit. No point in hanging around any longer, especially when there was a chance he would be spotted by someone who might recognise him from his previous frequent visits to the lab and morgue. He pulled one hand from his pocket to push open the door, and stepping easily out into the cool air again, considered his options. Now that he knew Molly's schedule, he could obviously just return at another time, when he could be sure to find her here. The issue was, of course, that John was liable to enquire what Sherlock was up to, particularly when he was no longer distracted by the process of moving back to Baker Street. And this little outing wasn't something which Sherlock was at all inclined to discuss – with anyone.

No, he thought, exhaling shortly and glancing around him, this wasn't really something that could be put off.

All the same, he couldn't deny a feeling of slight apprehension when he found himself, a few minutes later, at the door of Molly Hooper's flat.

Sherlock couldn't prevent a slight lifting of his eyebrows when the door opened in response to his knock. He was accustomed to seeing Molly in her work clothes – a clean white lab coat over a frilled shirt and either slacks or short skirt, usually accompanied by low heels. Now, however, he was presented with a Molly in fitted T-shirt and loose pyjama pants, the latter patterned with what appeared to be gambolling kittens. Her hair, for once, was not pulled back into a ponytail, and what little makeup she had on was clearly only for her own benefit, not anyone else's.

"Oh, um, hi! Hi, Sherlock – I-I wasn't – wasn't expecting –"

Molly's voice was startled in the extreme. She stared up at him for a moment, then seemed to notice how his eyes were taking in every aspect of her less-than-pristine appearance. A slight flush rose in her cheeks, and she pulled her lavender dressing gown a bit more tightly around her body. It took Sherlock a moment to realise how uncomfortable she was feeling in his presence at the moment. Shaking himself mentally, he flicked his eyes back up to her face.

"Am I – interrupting?" The words felt awkward on his tongue – he wasn't used to showing such consideration.

Molly shook her head quickly, almost frantically. "Oh, no, not – no." She let out a slight, false laugh. "I mean, I was just – watching some telly, you know… relaxing and all…"

Sherlock forced out a slow, silent breath, willing her to stop trying to play the casual game, just this once. She always overdid it, and it showed.

"So – what're you doing – here?" Molly went on, still speaking in the rushed, jerky phrases which Sherlock had come to associate with her conversations with him. "I mean, erm – I thought you were, you know – at your brother's." Now he could detect the faintest traces of worry in her voice. Obviously she thought something had gone horribly wrong; otherwise why would he come to see her, of all people?

Sherlock eyed her for a long moment, wondering how to start. Too long of a moment, he realised, for Molly looked slightly mortified and stammered without waiting for an answer, "No, sorry, I know it's not my business –" She hesitated for a second or two, then stepped back, pulling the door open further. "You can come in, if you like –" She turned away and hurried into the living room.

Sherlock watched her go, his head tilted slightly to one side. After a moment's deliberation, he stepped over the threshold, closing the door again quietly behind him before following her. A loud mewing around his ankles made him stop short a few steps into the living room. He looked down to see a small cat rubbing its back along the hem of his coat.

"That's Toby," said Molly. She was standing near the door to the kitchen, and there was a small but sincere smile on her face now. "I forgot – you hadn't met him, had you?"

Sherlock didn't really have anything to say to that, so he only glanced up and shook his head in reply. He tried to step carefully around the cat, but it only followed the movement of his feet and ended up nearly tripping him. He could have sworn that the animal had started purring, too, as though its sole pleasure in life was to make everyone who visited the flat look like a complete klutz. Lips compressed slightly, he made another attempt at walking and was subtly foiled once more when Toby twined himself around one of the detective's legs.

Sherlock let out a short sigh of exasperation, but Molly only giggled quietly. "Sorry," she explained, "he just likes being around people. Actually he likes being as close to you as possible." She bent down slightly and extended a hand to the cat. "Toby, come on then. Leave Sherlock alone."

Much to Sherlock's surprise – and relief – Toby immediately left off molesting him and sped over to Molly, who rubbed her hand a few times across the cat's head. The purring was now clearly audible.

"So, erm – d'you want tea or something?" Molly straightened up again and half turned towards the kitchen before glancing back expectantly at Sherlock. He looked at her with a slightly bemused expression.

"What? Oh, yes, that would be… fine…"

Molly bobbed her head in a quick nod. "Okay. Well – please, sit down…" She gestured somewhat wildly at the sofa close to where he was standing, then disappeared fully into the kitchen. The nervous sounds of the kettle being set on the stove and mugs being pulled from the cupboard drifted back into the living room.

Sherlock glanced around at the room, taking in the comfortable furniture and little odds and ends which Molly had scattered about to declare that this was her place. Everything seemed to be covered in cat hair; clearly she allowed her pet to roam wherever it wanted. He walked over to the sofa and sat down without removing his coat, his eyes still darting around.

Molly was certainly taking her time with preparing tea, he thought, leaning back. He supposed that she was seeing if she could stay back in the kitchen until the kettle boiled, rather than having to come out and look at him. He couldn't really blame her. Casual conversation was something at which they both tended to fail spectacularly. At least if she emerged with an offering of tea, they would have something to sip during the awkward pauses in the sparse conversation.

And then, of course, she might just be remembering the last time she had seen him, a little over five months ago. It had been Molly who had brought him to Mycroft's and been forced to leave him there, and apparently she had felt some sort of responsibility for that, because only a few weeks passed before she was back again, visiting, checking in on him. Sherlock grimaced slightly at the recollection. He had been in a rather foul mood that day, and not at all in the frame of mind to receive visitors. Whenever Molly tried to talk to him, in her hesitant way, he had replied with sharp single words, refusing to make eye contact. Her attempts to cheer him up, to comfort him, had done the complete opposite. And when, blushing furiously, she had shown him the box of chocolates she brought, and pressed it into his hand, he had immediately chucked the gift against the wood-panelled wall. She hadn't remained for very long after that, and his last memory was of her tear-filled eyes and trembling lips, her expression half-hurt, half-sympathetic, as she rushed from the room.

The kettle began to whistle shrilly from behind him and was quickly switched off. Sherlock threw a quick look over his shoulder. Still no Molly. She was probably thinking along the same lines as he was, and working up the nerve and proper facade of easy cheerfulness before setting herself in his line of sight again. He turned his head forward, pressed his fingers together lightly, and waited.

Molly finally emerged from the kitchen a few moments later, carrying two mugs of tea. As she moved around the back of the sofa to the low, cushioned chair on his right, he noticed that she had firmly tied her dressing gown around her. Poor, vulnerable Molly, always trying to regain control. Well, he supposed she might have a bit of success, in this case. After all, it was her flat, and he was no more comfortable in the unusual situation than she was.

She sat down and held out one of the mugs to him. Sherlock noted, with a passing interest, that she had allotted him the plainer one, simple and unpatterned. Did she think he would be offended if she gave him one with something on it, or that he would make some scathing remark? Meeting her eyes now, he accepted the proffered tea with a slight nod. After a few fractions of a second, during which he could see that she was waiting for something more, he added slowly, "Thank you."

He watched the corners of her mouth turn up a bit in response, caught the slight sag of her shoulders as she relaxed more. It was the little things, apparently, that mattered to Molly Hooper. They both sipped their tea in silence for a few moments. Once again, Sherlock found himself wondering where and how to start. He opened his mouth and began to speak, and at the same time Molly broke the silence.

"I realise that you weren't –"

"So how have you –"

They both broke off and stared at each other for a few seconds over the rims of their mugs. Molly laughed awkwardly.

"Sorry – you go."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, drew in a long breath, and started again. "I realise that you weren't expecting to see me," he said slowly. He took another sip of his tea. "I've left Mycroft's."

"Left?" Molly lifted her eyes from her tea to scan his features. "I thought you had to keep –"

"I'm no longer in hiding," interrupted Sherlock, with a brief shake of his head. "Well, not officially," he added, thinking of the warnings he had been given by John and Mycroft.

"Oh," said Molly. She was looking rather confused. "What're you doing, then?"

Sherlock managed to force a casual shrug. "Moving back into Baker Street," he answered. His eyes flickered towards her face, but he didn't actually make eye contact, preferring to glance around the room again.

A worried frown crossed Molly's face; Sherlock could almost track her thought process.

"But – if you go back to Baker Street – won't John –"

"John already knows," Sherlock cut in shortly.

"Oh, right." Another pause. Sherlock forced himself keep silent, even knowing the inevitable follow-up question. "Erm... how did he take it, then?"

He exhaled loudly. "Not well. But it could have been worse, I suppose. I'm not convinced that he's accepted it yet."

Molly nodded understandingly. "Well, these things take time, you know?" Her gaze was locked on his face again. "It will all work out."

"I expect so." Sherlock's reply was rather toneless.

This time nearly a full minute was passed in silence. Toby wandered over again, still purring, and leapt lightly up onto the sofa beside Sherlock, where he curled up easily, his forepaws resting on the detective's knee. Sherlock glanced over at Molly again, and she smiled slightly in reply. He returned his attention to his tea – now half gone – and took another long sip.

Molly leaned forward suddenly and spoke. "Sorry, but I – I'm still not really sure why you're here." The confession was accompanied by a nervous little laugh as she looked up at him.

Sherlock lowered his mug from his lips. To anyone else aware of the circumstances, it might have been obvious. But to Molly, who had been involved, and who knew what he was like... it was probably the last thing she would expect. He raised his eyes slightly to meet hers, sighed softly, and balanced his mug carefully on the arm of the sofa next to him. His fingertips pressed together again involuntarily.

When he spoke, each word was carefully considered, almost hesitant. He didn't want her to get the idea that he was suddenly different, that he might find this easy, or God forbid, was actually enthused about it in some way.

"I came... to thank you." His voice was low and rather uncertain. "You helped me when I needed help – without asking stupid questions." He gave a little tilt of his head. "I'm grateful for that."

Molly did indeed look rather taken aback at his words, and she only stared at him for a few seconds. "Oh, right, well. Least I could do." It sounded as though she wanted to say more, but wasn't quite sure what that more might be.

"Also..." Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. "I want to – apologise – for the way I treated you when we last met." He managed a half-smile here, and tried to put a bit of briskness back into his voice. "I behaved rather badly – in fact I'm fairly certain that I acted like a complete jerk –"

"No, no." Molly was shaking her head at him earnestly. "Well, I mean, yes, you did, but – it's okay. Really. It's not your fault, you just weren't –" She paused, searching for the right expression. "Weren't yourself," she finished.

Sherlock privately disagreed, but decided not to argue the point. He eyed her for a moment, then nodded. "Well, I just wanted to say – I'm sorry." And he did mean it, though perhaps not quite as fervently as he expected that Molly was hoping. After a few more seconds of silence, he rose, dislodging a disgruntled Toby, who jumped down again and stalked away.

"Thank you for the tea, Molly," said Sherlock conversationally.

"Oh, no problem." She put her own mug down and also rose. "Anytime."

Sherlock dug his hands into his coat pockets, and had half turned away when Molly spoke again.

"Erm..."

Sherlock looked around again to regard her. She appeared slightly flustered now, but strangely determined. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"I was just going to say," she stammered, looking up at him, "that if there's anything – anything else – that you need..."

She had already taken a step or two closer before Sherlock realised what she meant. He groaned inwardly. Apparently he hadn't been distant enough in his manner – she thought, or at least hoped, that this visit meant he was actually open to something more. She got in another step before he managed to get his hand up.

"Molly."

He looked down at her and sighed softly, shaking his head. "No," he said quietly.

She stopped, a foot away, and returned his gaze with a soft, hurt one of her own. Sherlock only took a step back in reply.

"I'm not –" He didn't know if explaining would do any good. "I don't think of you like – I have never –" He sighed again, and met her eyes squarely, but only went on levelly, "I'm sorry."

Molly didn't seem to realise that he hadn't changed that much. In Sherlock's mind, they could never be more than strange friends.

She began nodding then, quickly, and words of apology tumbled in a rush from her lips. Her face was flushed again, her eyes moving from Sherlock to the floor and back again, and a forced smile had appeared in a desperate bid to cover up her disappointment. Sherlock only continued to look at her, his own features impassive.

Still holding her eyes, he reached over and gently touched his fingers to her cheek. She had, at least, not succumbed to tears, which showed a good measure of inner strength. He dropped his hand again after a moment, studying her expression of slight surprise.

"Goodbye, Molly." He stepped back further, pivoting on his heel. "And again – thank you." Without waiting for a reply he headed for the door. From behind him, he heard Molly try to say something – with difficulty – but he only quickened his steps. Better if they left things here, without any awkward attempts at an explanation.

"I – I'll be seeing you again, then?" Molly had finally managed to get the words out. One hand on the door, Sherlock turned slightly and looked back. She was standing where he had left her, now with Toby cradled in her arms.

"I expect so, yes," he replied after a moment. "I'll probably need to use the lab again." With that, he pulled open the door and left.

Once outside, standing on the pavement, Sherlock allowed his brain to process the last minute or so of his conversation with Molly. He had known that there was risk in opening up to her – that she might take his words too much to heart. Six months ago, he had had no choice but to ask for and accept her help, and she in turn had been too worried about him to try for anything other than friendship. She had known that was what he needed. But this time, when he came to her once again of his own volition, with a purpose other than need, she had hoped for too much. He just didn't look at her like that.

Sherlock resolved to put the matter out of his mind. He would encounter her again, many times, probably, and it would be familiar. He would be sitting at the microscope in the lab, and Molly would be hovering in the background, leaving only to fetch things for him. She would try to make conversation, and he would ignore it. The only difference would be – maybe – when they both made eye contact. She would smile tentatively, like there was something more between them now. And Sherlock, for once, might actually try to give a half-smile in return before looking away.

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Please leave your comments and review! May the Force be with you.


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